


On Martin Crieff's (Numerous) Regrets

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood, I'm Sorry, M/M, but oops this is going to be in a few chapters, this was meant to be a quick fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, Mob AUs are fantastic, but slightly dorky Mob AUs with the charming characters of Cabin Pressure are tremendously fun to write.</p><p>Martin, in all terms of the word, is utterly screwed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tracionn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tracionn/gifts).



It's _9am_. It's _nine_ in the morning, and the students should be gone by now, so why is there so much _noise_? He only got home _three_ hours ago, because sweet God, he'd been working a night shift the bar down the street. 

But the banging doesn't stop, so Martin makes his way downstairs, still shirtless, in his aeroplane printed pyjama pants, and pulls the door open.

Oh,  _God._

“Martin Crieff.” Carolyn steps inside, and she pushes the door closed behind her. “You owe me money.” Martin can feel his heart beating fast in his chest – he'd failed another CPL the day before yesterday, and he has no money left, and he's working two awful jobs and he cries a lot.

And he owes Carolyn money. He owes Carolyn a  _Hell_ of a lot of money, because he just keeps failing his CPL and everything else and he just so  _wants_ to be a  _**pilot.** _

Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, two years ago, had seemed like a  _nice_ old lady who happened to live nearby, a nice old lady who would quite happily lend Martin just a little bit of money because she totally wanted him to pass his pilot tests out of pure desire to see him do well.

That is _not_ what Carolyn is. Carolyn _kills_ people. Carolyn is a _loan_ shark in ownership of several local businesses.  He'd only ever borrowed _two thousand_ , and now he's so much in debt-

 

Carolyn is going to kill him. 

Oh, God.

“Well? Are you going to _say_ anything?” She looks at him with a raised eyebrow – they are the same height, and yet Martin feels like she's so much taller than him. Carolyn holds up a knife, patting her own lips with it impatiently.

Martin desperately needs to pee.

“Uh-uh-uh-uh-”

“Shut up.” She holds up her spare hand, and Martin closes his mouth with a click. “Do you know how much money you owe me, Martin?”

“I have been getting your letters.” Martin says, voice coming out high-pitched and slightly hysterical. 

“I was _wondering._ ” Carolyn's voice resonates, and she curls her lip at him. She could rip out his throat with her teeth. Hell, she could rip out his throat with Martin's _own_ teeth.

“Are- are you- I mean, have you come, um, to-” She's going to kill him. Oh, Christ. She's going to _murder_ him, and the students are going to come home to see his body here, dead, on the floor. She _has_ killed people – this Bostonian tourist who'd kicked up a fuss in one of her stores, and a Canadian woman that'd caused issue with her, and-

“I'm not going to kill you, Martin. Go pack your things.” Martin stares at her, wide-eyed.

“What do- wh-” What? _What_?

“I told you to go pack your things, Martin, not ask me irritating questions.” Martin is making gibbering noises, and she's just _staring_ at him.

“But what-”

“Martin, go pack your _things_. _You_ are coming with _me_. You are not staying here any longer. Clear?”

“ _No,_ I don't want-”

“Do I have a big white beard and a red suit, Martin? No! I am not Santa Claus, and therefore I don't give a _damn_ what you want. Go upstairs and _ **pack**_.” Martin is wide-eyed and uncertain and has no idea what in God's name is going _on,_ but Carolyn still has a knife in her hand, and she's beginning to become somewhat frustrated with him.

He runs upstairs. Oh,  _God_ , what's going to happen to him?

Carolyn appears in the doorway, her arms crossed, and she stares at him as he begins to drop clothes into a suitcase with his hands shaking, and he feels horrible and he feels like he might vomit, and now his stomach his churning and he's beginning to breathe heavier and oh, oh, oh, he's going to be  _sick_ -

“In the bathroom, Martin, not in here.” Martin runs to do so.

He returns after seven minutes or so, and his suitcase is packed, and two plastic bags have been filled with shoes, his phone, laptop and his coat. She grasps the suitcase in her hand and gestures for him to get the other bag, thrusting a t-shirt into his hands to put on.

“But- so _are_ you going to- what-”

“I'm not going to kill you, Martin, good God, what a terrible mess that would make. And it's wasteful, too. If I have to pack my recycling in six different coloured bloody bin bags, I'm not going to kill you for no reason.” She speaks crisply, throwing his suitcase into the back of her car, and Martin stares at her. 

“But- but you kill people all the time!”

“Well, not _all_ the time. And only when they deserve it.” His mouth is open, and he needs to vomit again. Oh, God.

“Go.” How does she _know_ he wants to vomit? How? “And do ensure to leave a note for your students. Best they don't look for you.” Martin lets out a whimper, but runs inside all the time. He rinses his mouth out before moving outside again, sliding slowly into her passenger seat.

“You're going to come work for me.” Martin turns to stare at Carolyn, his mouth dropping open, and he is absolutely horrified. “ _What_!?”

“Oh, come now, Martin, it's not so terrible. You'll live. For a while.” Martin's head whips to the side and he stares at her: Carolyn laughs.

\---

“Arthur!” Martin holds his suitcase against his legs as if it might protect him. Does Carolyn have dogs? This is Carolyn's home, right? Does she have dogs? Oh, God, they're probably Rottweilers or German Shepherds or maybe she doesn't even have dogs but has some sort of trained birds or a host of feral cats or-

“ _ **Arf arf arf**_ _!”_ That is, if Martin is not mistaken, a chocolate Cockapoo. It stares up at him with its big wide eyes and flopping tongue, as if Martin is of a species it's never seen in his life.

“Hallo, Mum! Snoopadoop, come!” The chocolate Cockapoo goes up to Arthur, taking the treat from him after refusing to perform a single one of the plethora of tricks Arthur had tried to get him to do.

Incredible.

“Who's'at?” Arthur asks this question around a significant part of a doughnut. 

“This is Martin Crieff.” Carolyn says.

“Oh. Bad pilot Martin Crieff?” What? _No!_

“Yes. He'll be working with us now. He'll be in the room next to yours.”

“Can I just ask-” Martin tries to break in.

“No.” Well, that went horrifically. “Arthur?”

“Sure! With me, Skip!” Martin follows him, and Arthur grabs his bag off him, leaving Martin only with his plastic bag and the other man carrying his suitcase. 

“Why- why are you calling me Skip...?” Martin asks. “And- and who are you in relation to Carolyn? And also, um, what am I doing here?” His cheeks are flushed and his heart is beating hard in his chest, and shit, shite, _shit._

“Well, you're Skip 'cause you're head of household. And Douglas says Skipper runs the ship. And he's the head of the ship. And this is ship-shape. Or it will be, with you.” That hasn't answered his question. In fact, he has more questions. Who is Douglas? Why is he head of the household? Is he supposed to _marry_ Carolyn? What is happening?

“And she's Mum. And you're here 'cause you owe a lot of money to Mum. And so you run stuff here now.”

“I- what?”

“You run stuff here now.” Arthur repeats in the exact same tone with no difference in modulation. 

“But what- what does that _mean_ -”

“Your room!” Martin stops short as Arthur pushes the door open, his eyes slightly wide. “Is this a joke?” 

“What? No, Skip, this is your room.” This room isn't in an attic. It doesn't have holes in the ceiling, or slightly broken windows. It's got a _double_ bed, and a really large wardrobe, and a dresser, and a- a computer? A _Mac_ computer? And his own bathroom. He has his own _bathroom._

“Arthur, what's- let me just- straighten out the facts. I owe your mother money.”

“Yes.” Arthur nods, putting Martin's suitcase on the bed and unzipping it. 

“I owe your mother fifteen thousand pounds.”

“Uh huh!” Arthur is unpacking his bag for him. Martin can't really get himself to move, and he just hovers awkwardly in the doorway.

“And so- your mother is making me stay in your home,”

“That's right.”

“Working for you and her,”

“Yes.”

“As- what, exactly?” 

“Oh! Well, you have to do groceries, make sure the freezer doesn't defrost, feed Snoopadoop but not walk her 'cause Mum does that, uh-” Arthur shrugs. “And you're not allowed to tell your Mum or Dad or anyone about this. Or bad things will happen.”

“Bad things?” Martin queries, and his knees are slightly weak, and he desperately needs to sit down. Is he dreaming? This isn't real. It can't be real. Who responds to someone in fifteen thousand pounds of debt by _giving them a job and a decent home?_

“Yeah, she says that a lot. Oh, and deliveries.”

“Deliveries?”

“Yep. Okay, bye!”

“But, Arth-” He leaves, and Martin stares after him until Arthur closes the door behind him. Martin moves over to his suitcase and he begins to unpack. Is this some kind of cruel _joke_? Carolyn is- Carolyn is like the _mob._ She's- she has murdered people, and she's got money, and-

What is  _happening_ ?

Should he be unpacking? Shouldn't he call the police? Or his mum? No, God no, he can't call Mum. Or Dad. Oh,  _God._ What if Dad knew? Dad wants him to be an  _electrician_ , not a maid for a mob boss!

Or a pilot, for that matter. But he's  _never_ going to be a pilot now. There's a knock on his door and he turns to look, expecting it to be thrown open. There's another knock, more urgent.

“Come in?” Carolyn opens the door and stares at him.

“Delivery. Come downstairs. Put on trousers that aren't those pyjamas.” And with that, she closes it again. Delivery. _Delivery._ Oh. Oh, God.

He pulls on clothes, and shoes for that matter, and then he moves downstairs. Carolyn thrusts a briefcase into his hands, and Martin stares at it, eyes wide. 

“What-”

“None of your business. Don't you _dare_ open it, Martin. You will take this, and you will deliver it to Fitton Airfield to a pilot at Air England. His name is Douglas Richardson.” Martin breathes heavily, his knees shaking. But no, no, he can do this. He can- he can do this.

Probably.

“I can't do this.” He blurts out.

“Of course you can. You hold it in your hand, like this, without hugging it.” Carolyn guides his hand to the handle of the case, moving it to the side of Martin's leg, where briefcases are meant to be held. “And then you walk to the airfield. It's twenty minutes away. You go to the airfield, and you say “I'm here for Douglas Richardson.”, who will be _delighted_ to see you. Now, please, Martin. Get away from me.”

Martin exits the house and begins to walk down the street. He doesn't even know where Fitton airfield is, in truth, but he's terrified of Carolyn, and he doesn't know what's going on, and this just might be a dream. 

Mostly a nightmare. What's in this briefcase? It's drugs. Oh, God. It's drugs, it must be drugs. It's probably- heroin, or, or, or crystal meth, or  _marijuana._ Dear God, is he carrying a briefcase full of marijuana?

\---

There is no one to tell that he is there for Douglas Richardson. He just sort of wanders onto the airfield and into a building that is marked for Air England, and a very  _attractive_ man steps in front of him. And he's wearing a captain's uniform. He's a captain. A  _captain._ An attractive  _captain._

Martin lets out a high-pitched warble. 

Attractive captain raises an eyebrow. “You're Martin Crieff, I presume?” Martin nods, letting out another embarrassing noise. He tips his head to the side, indicating for the other man to follow him into the building. “Briefcase?”

“You- you're Douglas- Richardson?”

“That's my name, yes. And that is also _my_ briefcase. I would appreciate if you would hand it to me.”

“What- what are you going to do with it?” Douglas Richardson furrows his brow slightly, looking down at Martin – and definitely looking down at him, because there's almost a foot of difference in height. 

“I'm going to take it on an aeroplane and sell the contents in New York.” Martin is breathing very heavily. Oh, no. Oh, he thought he could do this, but now- no, no, he can't contribute to a drug deal. _God._ _ **God.**_

“Martin, you've gone somewhat green. And you appear to be close to tears. In case you've not noticed.” Douglas says, his brow slightly furrowed.

“I can't do this! I can't! I can't, I can't, it's- I can't do this! I don't want to be involved in drug deals, or, or smuggling, or killing people, or-”

“Drugs?” Douglas looks _baffled._ “Martin, open the briefcase.”

“Carolyn told me not to.”

“And I am telling you the opposite.” Martin stares at him for a few moments, silently wondering if Douglas has some sort of terrible death wish for Martin. “... Alright, fair point. Give it to me.” Martin does, putting the briefcase on the table. Douglas unlocks it and opens it, revealing the- books? “These are two first edition copies of Tolkein's Lord of the Rings. They are signed, and they are worth a good deal of money – they are worth more money if we pay no tax on their sale.”

Martin looks at the books, and then he looks at Douglas. “O-oh.” He furrows his brow. “Can I- Captain Richardson-”

“Douglas.”

“What?”

“I was correcting you as to what to call me. It's Douglas, Martin. I'm not _your_ captain.” Martin wishes Douglas was his captain. Not because he's attractive, but because then Martin would be a _pilot_. 

“Oh. Douglas. Do you know- do you know what my job is?” The older man laughs a little, and he reaches over and pats Martin's hand, and it is so warm, and so broad, and Martin feels slightly dizzy.

“Carolyn hasn't told you a thing, has she?” Martin shakes his head. Douglas chuckles. “I've got a flight in twenty five minutes, but why don't I meet you tomorrow?”

“Oh, meet you. Meet you. Meet you, and, uh- explain to me...?”

“Yes. And, Martin?”

“Douglas?”

“Calm down. She's not going to kill you.” Martin breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Alright.”

“Good lad.” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Martin is quick enough about exiting the building, and he stops short, regarding Air England's A350. It's _sleek_ and well-designed, and Martin's mouth is slightly open as he looks up at it. Douglas is watching him with slightly raised eyebrows, though he doesn't notice.

“Like aeroplanes, do you?”

“I'm training to be a pilot.” Martin says softly, and Douglas stares at him, slightly taken aback. 

“Oh.” Douglas pats his shoulder, and then ambles toward the plane, briefcase in hand. Martin, reluctantly, makes his way from the airfield and back to Carolyn's house instead.

“Wasn't so terrible, was it?” Carolyn asks from her place at the hob: Arthur is hovering, obviously wishing to do something, but it doesn't look as if she plans to give him anything to do. 

“Uh, no, no, it's- it's a nice airfield, and I- Douglas is- I mean, he's very- isn't he? Isn't he very...? I mean-” Arthur and Carolyn are staring at him, Arthur with his head tilted perplexedly to the side and Carolyn amused. 

“He's _very_ , yes, Martin.” Martin turns pink. 

Dinner is a simple enough affair, and he's slightly less terrified that Carolyn is going to kill him. She just kills other people. Which is... Also, really, not tremendously good. But if he tries to leave, she'll kill him. And he's not  _helping_ her kill anyone: he hasn't even helped with drug deals. Just- book deals. Which is bizarre, he supposes.

“Now, Martin,” Carolyn says once Arthur's gone, and she regards him for a few moments. “No one is going to kill you. You'll live here. Tell your family you have a live-in job.”

“What sort of-”

“Hush, I honestly don't care.” Carolyn says, interrupting him with ease. “You run the house. Groceries. Cleaning. Bills. Et cetera.” Martin gives a very tiny nod. “Can you do this?” Martin nods. “One year.” Another nod. 

Jesus, why is he nodding?

Because he has no other option and he doesn't want to die. That's the reason. Oh, God. Oh, God.

“Fantastic.” And he doesn't have to marry Carolyn. That's definitely not a worry, which is good. Marrying Carolyn would be- not good. 

And Martin- well, if he has to do it, he's going to do it well. So he wakes up at six, and he goes downstairs, and then he drives to the 24-hour Tesco with the list Carolyn had left him and the housekeeping money Carolyn had left him, and he has a lot left over because he's become very used to living frugally, but upon putting the groceries away he realizes that the sink is broken and the cupboards are disorganized and the  _mess is upsetting._

And that's how at five o'clock he's replaced the faucets on the bathroom and kitchen sinks, and fixed the extractor fan above the stove, and reorganized the fridge, and then the contents of the food cupboards to stack by expiration date.

At the moment he's currently reorganizing the crockery. And washing some of it, because some of it is dirty, and that's upsetting.

“Martin, what are you doing?” Martin flinches, and then he stares at Douglas, his eyes slightly wide. 

“How did you get in here?” Douglas holds up a set of house keys, raising an eyebrow. “Oh. Oh, right. Right. Because you- you and Carolyn- you're...?” Oh, God. Oh, God. Martin is so stupid, _so_ stupid, and of course Carolyn and Douglas are together, and that's why Carolyn had laughed at him-

“Coworkers.” Oh. “Though Carolyn is tremendously dependent on me, I'm fairly certain that's simply due to my own terrific virtues rather than actual affection. I tend to _check in_ now and then.” He regards Martin amusedly. “And you are... Organizing plates and dishes.”

“They were messy.” Douglas opens the fridge and looks inside.

“And you've reorganized this. By date. And you've separated raw and cooked food. And bought tupperware.” Douglas smiles, closing the fridge and opening the cupboard beneath the sink. “I'm impressed, Martin. You're certain you want to be a pilot, and not a maid?”

“Oh, no, no, no, I've wanted to be a pilot since I was-”

“A joke, Martin.” Douglas says, spreading his hands slightly. Martin flushes red, heat coming fast to his cheeks. 

“Right. Yes. Of course. I'm sorry.” Martin begins to stack plates on the kitchen table, quietly thoughtful. 

“So, where are your kidnapper and her delightful progeny?” Douglas asks, leaning against the counter. 

“Kid- would you say, uh, kidnapper? Is that what you'd say?” Martin hadn't thought of it like that, and oh, God, _oh_ , oh, oh no, has he been kidnapped? No, no, he hasn't been kidnapped. Of course not. Douglas snorts. Oh, okay. That's a joke. Yes. “They're down in London, doing- I didn't really understand what Arthur was saying.”

“That's alright. Carolyn and I do tend to just try and block it out.” 

“I- yes, I- I'm not very- I mean, that is to say, I'm good at some things, like, um, organization, and-”

“Relaxation?”

“Ah, yes! Relaxation! Oh- no, no, perhaps- not-” Why is it so hard to speak? Why is it _so_ difficult to talk to Douglas? How did he end up here? What is _happening_? 

“Martin?”

“Mmm?”

“Calm down. Much as those red cheeks offer _charming_ lighting, you really don't need to worry so much.” Martin takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly before giving a small nod. Yes. Yes, he can relax. And it will be fine. Just fine. “Oh, and Martin?” He looks up from his plates and suddenly Douglas is a _lot_ closer, and Martin lets out a sort of soft squeak.

“Captain- Douglas.”

“Captain Douglas.”

“I forgot to call you Douglas, initially.”

“Yes, I got that.” Douglas' lips are twitching, and he's amused as he looks down at Martin. And he most definitely _is_ looking down at Martin – how tall is he? What, six feet? Six one? Six one, six two. That's the ideal height, for a pilot. Martin is not the ideal. “Might I take you out to dinner, Friday night? I should hope you'd have finished these plates by then.”

Martin squeaks.

“I'll take that as a yes, then?” Martin gives a very rapid nod, and Douglas laughs – it's nice, that he can laugh like that. Lots of people laugh, but not everyone laughs, in that way, precisely, and Douglas' laugh is particularly-

_Yes._ Very-  _yes._

“Yes. Yeah. To- anywhere. Not anywhere, just- most places.”

“Alright then. Friday.”

“Friday. Yes. Friday. And today- today is Wednesday.”

“That's correct. Five stars.” Martin laughs, slightly nervously but _mostly_ out of humour, and then Douglas leaves.

Martin has been sort of borrowed, to pay off his debts from failing numerous flight tests, to work for a lady who runs various businesses and kills people, and her smuggler pilot has just asked him on a date to which he accepted.

It's like-

Martin has no idea what it's like. He's never considered this before. Surely this isn't in any books? No books have ever  _thought_ of this.

But, God.

Martin has a  _date._

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Pretty errand boy, is it?” Martin looks up from where he's cleaning the oven, staring at Carolyn with a slightly tilted head, his eyes slightly wide with some confusion on his face.

“What?” Carolyn holds out her phone, and Martin sees the text that Douglas sent her. _**Asked pretty errand boy out. I'll have him Friday night, thanks.**_ Martin flushes a sweet pink, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh- well, you know, he asked- I mean, if I can-”

“Do whatever you like.” Carolyn says with an easy shrug, amused. “Cleaning the oven, are you?”

“Mum!” Arthur's voice comes from the bathroom, sounding incredulous. “The sink's working!”

“Oh, yes, I- I replaced the faucets, on the bathroom sinks, and the baths, and I fixed the shower because it sort of, ah, leaked, a little? And I fixed the kitchen sink, and the extractor fan, and I've organized the cupboards and reorganized the fridge.” Carolyn stares at him, slightly taken aback.

“Oh. Well. Thank you.” Martin gives a tiny little nod, and then he pulls out of the oven, having finished rinsing away the bleach. “It's- I'm- quite handy. My dad is, uh, he's an electrician, and he knows how to fix things, so I just sort of, um, learned-”

“Right, well. Well done.” Carolyn says, and she smiles at him before moving to the fridge, taking out a few things for a stirfry.

The meal is good, and Martin feels better eating it knowing it came out of a clean fridge, and when Carolyn asks if he'd have a look at Arthur's Wii and see about fixing it, Martin does, settling in front of it with his screwdriver. It's actually just a few slipped wires, nothing worse than that, and he works in silence as Carolyn goes out to buy batteries for the remote.

Martin sets the Wii down, and he smiles slightly, because he'd managed to fix it quite easily, and it's nice to actually be _good_ at something for once. God knows he's not good at most things – socializing, or flying, or talking, or- well, _anything,_ except for cleaning and fixing things.

God, maybe Douglas was right.

The door comes open, and Carolyn comes in. Martin lets out a soft cry, eyes wide, as he stares at her hands – those and the front of her shirt are wet with blood, and Carolyn's got a grim expression on her face.

“Uh-uh-uh- I'll run a bath!” Martin says, and he runs out of the room, throwing himself up the stairs so that he doesn't have to keep looking at her. Oh, God. Oh, _God._ He'd almost forgotten, how could he forget? She- she had gone out, just for batteries, and she'd _killed_ someone, oh, good God. He feels sick. He feels like he's about to vomit – the blood on her hands, thick and wet but drying, and on her clothes and shoes, a rusty red-

“Martin.”

“Ah! Ah, ah, I'm sorry- it's, it's nearly run-”

“Martin, I didn't kill anyone.” Carolyn says tiredly, putting her hands under the sink's taps.

“Wh- what?”

“I hit a badger with my car.” She says irritably. “I had to move it to the side of the road so that I could wait for the RSPCA to come and pick it up, for God's sake. Stop _worrying_ about me killing people, would you?”

“A- a badg- you hit a- _Oh._ ” Martin sits on the side of the bath, rubbing absently at his white cheeks. “Is- is the badger okay?”

“I don't know. They'll give me a call in the morning and tell me how it went.” Carolyn mutters, turning the taps off. “Now, can I _have_ this bath, or do you want to sit and watch me?”

“No! No, I don't want to do that! I will- go downstairs.” Martin blurts out, and he does, rushing down the stairs.

“Oh, hey, Skip!” Arthur says, as if his mum hasn't just come home covered in blood. Martin wonders what he'd do if _his_ mum did that, but somehow he can't quite imagine it. “D'you want to play Mario Kart?”

“Uh- Okay, but- I've not played it before.”

“Oh, that's alright! I'm awful at it!” Bizarre man, Arthur Shappey is, but he's never said a bad word to Martin yet, so he sits alongside him and takes the Wiimote.


	4. Chapter 4

Martin is very slow about leaving Carolyn's house, somewhat wary of the sleek, black Lexus, polished and shining as it is even in the bleak evening light. No, not wary – that's not at all the right word: Martin actually feels terribly safe with Douglas and, for that matter, with Carolyn and Arthur, despite the nature of the whole endeavour.

Nervous. That's more it – he doesn't want to disappoint, and in all truth he's not ready to go out. He's ready to go to  _bed._

He aches. Martin's shoulders ache, his legs ache, his lower back twinges now and then: he's been working all day, and the day before he'd done two jobs in his van. Which had been odd, actually, because when he'd tried to give Carolyn the money she'd stared at him, picked an empty jar off the draining board and pressed it against his chest before walking off.

She'd not been in the best of moods for the past few days, and even if she had been, Martin likely would not have wanted to quiz her as to her general actions. It's not really in Martin's nature to do that.

It's cold, and drizzling a little - not exactly the ideal for a first date. Martin is  _nervous_ , and his hands are very cold. He moves into the passenger seat, settling beside Douglas, and pulls the car door shut. The car heater is on, and he lets out a quiet groan, pressing his hands against the billowing warmth.

Beside him, Douglas snorts. He turns and he regards the other man amusedly, and Martin can't help but flush just a little – as if he isn't red enough for the sake of the cold. He must look like Rudolph, all red-nosed as he is.

"Cold at all?" Douglas asks, and Martin lets out a quiet, self-deprecating little laugh, and begins to draw them back.

"I get cold easily."

"Ah.” Douglas catches Martin's hands, and his hands are broader than his own, warm and pleasant and actually somewhat soft. He rubs over Martin's hands for a few moments, and Martin tries to take mental inventory of the fact that is mouth is dry and open, and he stares at Douglas for a few seconds. His heart is beating fast in his chest. “It's because you don't eat enough." Douglas says, and he's so familiar. Really casual about it, and Martin offers Douglas a shy, little grin.

Douglas pushes his hands in front of the heater again, and puts his hands on the wheel.

“Where- where is it that we're going...?” Martin asks softly.

“Well, I was thinking a nice French bistro I know, and then bowling.” Douglas says, and Martin wants to be polite, wants to be as polite as possible, but Douglas sees the hesitation on his face. “Though if you don't like French cuisine-”

“No, no, it's not, um, that- I'm just-” Martin swallows hard. “I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I don't mean to seem ungrateful-”

“I am paying.” Douglas says firmly. “You really do not need to feel terrible, really, it's not even particularly exp-”

“No, no, that's not it, um, either – not that I'm  _happy_  about you paying, um- I'm just really tired.” Martin blurts out. “I don't think I can do bowling. My arms ache, because I scrubbed a lot, today, and I just-”

“Oh, that's fine.” Douglas says, and  _his_  cheeks turn a sort of pink colour, and Martin really likes it. A lot. “Well, just dinner then.”

“If that's okay?”

“That's fine.” Douglas says quietly. Martin feels he ought push conversation, nice conversation, but he doesn't really know what to say. He knows nothing. Martin doesn't have a life, really. He spends every night studying his flight manuals and doing his best to memorize them.

“Uh, did- did Carolyn tell you the badger lived? He lived! And the RSPCA is going to um, keep him for a little while because he broke a leg, but once that's well they're going to release him into the wild.” Douglas stares at him for a few moments, blankly.

“Sorry, what badger?”

“Oh.” Martin laughs a little. “Sorry, um, let me explain.”

\---

It's perfect, after that. Douglas is actually really funny, and he likes silly word games, and when Martin has no idea what anything on the menu is Douglas orders for him and the chicken is  _perfect._ It turns out that Douglas actually knows a lot of things.

“So.” Douglas says, and both of them have their hands in their coat pockets as they walk down the street – just a quick walk before they move back to the car, just because it's stopped raining now, and a walk is nice after dinner. “A pilot, hmm?”

“Oh,  _yes._ ” Martin says softly, and for a few moments he forgets who exactly he's talking to: the idea of attempting to appear anything  _like_  “cool” fades from his mind. “I've wanted to be a pilot ever since I was a little boy – flying has always been so exciting to me. Just the idea of being so  _high_  in the sky, travelling at high speed from place to place as if you've got access to Hermes' sandals, and it's so  _exciting._  What could be more exciting?” He keeps talking, after that, but he doesn't even know what he's saying: the words just tumble from his mouth with verbs like “love” and “adore” and adjectives like “perfect” and “tremendous” and “joyful”.

When he finally trails off, he remembers Douglas is there, and when he glances to the other man he is silent, his expression warm.

“That's lovely, Martin.” Douglas says quietly, and he reaches out out, plucking Martin's hand from his pocket, and he brings it to his mouth, pressing a little kiss to the skin. Martin lets out a sort of squeak. “I was going to attempt to be charming, which, I'm sure you'll agree, I'm  _terribly_  fantastic at,” Martin laughs a little as Douglas looks up at him amusedly. “but I think you've rather charmed me.”

“Oh. Oh. Oh, oh, oh-”

“Martin.” Douglas sing-songs at him, and Martin closes his mouth with a click of his jaw.

“Y-yes?”

“Would you like to get in the car?” Martin looks to the side, and looks at Douglas' Lexus.

“Oh. Oh, yes.” Douglas is older than him. Douglas is, in fairness, quite a bit older than him and Martin likely oughtn't be so  _attracted_ , but- well! He's not that young! He's twenty seven. Twenty seven isn't very very young, even though it's just a little bit younger than forty two. Forty two is quite a  _bit_  older.

But not terribly old. Not awfully so. He's younger than Dad – not that Dad's age is some sort of magic maximum, but all the same, it's something like that, but- Douglas  _is_ -

Douglas is very attractive.

“We're here, Martin.” Douglas says, and Martin looks up, pulled quite sharply out of his reverie.

“Oh. Yes.” Martin says, and he feels he ought to rush, ought to rush away – he throws the door open, and he sort of panics, because he also doesn't want to go. He does want to go to bed, and he is quite sleepy and the idea of huddling under the covers, yes, but the idea of huddling under the covers with  _Douglas_  is far more exciting, and-

Martin leans quickly across the car and presses his mouth to Douglas', cupping his cheek and  _delighting_  when Douglas puts his broad hands on Martin's skinny shoulders and kisses him back. Douglas' mouth is warm and not too wet and  _pleasant_ , and when they finally break apart Martin lets out a drawn-out, soft sigh.

“Pick you up Tuesday at seven, go bowling?”

“Oh, yes, please. Are you good at bowling?”

“I'm tremendous.”

“You?”

“Not bad. I don't practice much.”

“Ah.” Douglas' right hand moves back to the wheel: his left slides from Martin's shoulder to settle with a satisfying weight on Martin's hip. “You can always practise with me.” Martin's lips twitch, and he smiles. With that he (rather reluctantly) pulls away, and he climbs out of the car.

“I'll- Tuesday.”

“Tuesday.” Douglas agrees, and he smiles at Martin. Martin wants to climb back into the car and get into Douglas' lap.

He does  _not_  do that. He closes the door and shuffles up towards the house, and he glances out and offers a little wave to Douglas as he drives away.

“How was it, then?” Carolyn asks as he comes in, and Martin nods.

“Yes. It was- yes.”

“It was yes.” Carolyn repeats in a dry tone, raising an eyebrow.

“Good! I meant good!” Martin says, and Carolyn snorts.

“Well, I'm very glad it was  _yes_ -I-mean-good, Martin. Night night.”

“Night night.” Martin says softly, and he scoots past her, making his way up the stairs to bed. His life has  _never_ moved so fast before.

God, the next time he sees his mum he's going to have a lot of things to explain.


End file.
